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Wednesday, March 31, 2021


Late last year, the New York Magazine’s "The Cut" feature section staff sent Photographer/fashionista Olivia Bee some designer clothes to play with and photograph, including a Gucci dress with an appropriately “cottage-core” collar and an all-American Ralph Lauren leather suit. She modeled them around her Oregon Ranch, wearing Schiaparelli, above, while feeding the chickens. The rest is history. CLICK HERE.

Bee's Ranch

Hot/Haute. Bee models a Sukeina coat and pants from

Olivia dashing through the snow in a Chloe belted wool jacket, crepe de chine top, and flannel pants, similar styles at Chloe boutiques.
Photo: Olivia Bee

Tuesday, March 30, 2021


And here it is, the Point Bonita Lighthouse. Not a tall tower but a squat solid structure. The building on which the tower rests is 24 by 14 feet, and the tower extends 16 feet above the roof, and is 12feet in diameter. The lamp is 7 feet high, a dominant part of the building itself. The lighthouse light is operational today, as it was when it was first lit. How many sailors and captains took a deep sigh of relief at the sight of its beam shining 18 miles out to sea? One second off, three on, One second off, three on,... Port within reach! Payday! and the Barbary Coast. (Hornpipe) 

To the sailors and passengers alike, after weeks at the mercy of the sea, this lighthouse must have evoked the image of a stalwart sentinel: of welcome! 

For modern day lighthouse explorers, getting to this lighthouse is an adventure of its own.  For starters, if you arrive from San Francisco there's the Golden Gate bridge to cross.  Follow winding roads on scene Marin headlands to a one-way traffic tunnel that leads to a pedestrian tunnel bored through solid rock which leads you to a walking suspension bridge.  You're there.


Monday, March 29, 2021


Tony in his Manhattan home, 2021 Image by Kelsey Bennett.

AARP Magazine continues publishing general interest articles in the spirit of bygone magazines like Saturday Evening Post, Look, Life and MacLeans. 

It hit a proverbial home run in its Feb/Mar, 2021 edition with “Breaking the Silence,” an excellent human interest profile of singer Tony Bennett. Writer John Colapinto, a long-time contributor to The New Yorker and Rolling Stone, delved into the 94-year-old progression into Alzheimer’s Disease, the most common form of age-related dementia. 

Tony Bennett in 1971
The piece is Bennett’s family’s first public admission of Tony’s condition. Bennett’s enduring talent and popularity are at the center of the article but true to its roots AARP goes into the importance of maintaining joy, physical activity, family ties while battling the incurable disease. 

It also covers how recent studies are finding an intriguing link increases in patient lucidity to love of music and singing/playing instruments. “Singing is everything to him,” says Bennett’s wife Susan, “Everything. Many times. Through divorces and things. If he ever stops singing that’s when we’ll know…” Her voice catching, she stopped speaking. 

For the complete AARP article CLICK HERE

BEST OF BENNETT Writer Colapinto put together a Top Ten of The Best of Tony Bennett. 

1950: Boulevard of Broken Dreams Tony's first single with Columbia.

1951: Because of You, First No. 1 hit 

1953: Rags to Riches Later opened the film Goodfellas.

Kelsey Bennett photo
of Tony Bennett, 2021 
1959: Smile A definitive take on the Charlie Chaplin classic

1962: I Left My Heart in San Francisco Homesick ballad by a pair of unknowns 

1965: The Shadow of Your Smile Wrings a tear with oboe-like low notes 

1965: Fly Me to the Moon A spine-chilling, melancholy treatment 

1975: But Beautiful Reflects his midlife pain and doubt 

2011: Body and Soul (with Amy Winehouse) A heartbreaking jazz improvisation

2011: The Lady Is a Tramp (with Lady Gaga) These two have such fun it's palpable. —J.C. 

 TONY/LADY ON YOU TUBE: Click here. 

Recording studio video Tony with Lady Gaga singing “The Lady is a Tramp,” 2011

Sunday, March 28, 2021


The Masters Review exists to hold literary contests, mainly in fiction from its Bend, Oregon headquarters. Below it the winner selected as the best of its Summer Fiction Contest. Winning writer Adeline Lovell grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She’s a sophomore at Smith College, where she is majoring in English with a focus in creative writing, as well as the Study of Women and Gender. “Burning” is her first published piece. For more on The Masters Review and its frequent and varied literary contests

“Burning” by Adeline Lovell 

They announce the end of the world on a Saturday in April through a news article that quotes a whistleblower from the White House. In eight days, a solar flare is going to detach itself from the sun and hurtle towards the earth and burn it to particles. They’ve known for a week, and they weren’t going to say anything. 

Henry reads the story in his bedroom as the sun is going down, its dying gasps throwing creamy light over everything: psychology books for exams he will never take, empty coffee cups that are piling up because he hasn’t had the chance to recycle them, a copy of The Road that he borrowed from a friend and never started, a calendar full of appointments that will never happen. He tries to react but feels nothing but hollow. He scans the page again and almost laughs. 

Someone at CNN typed out the words “approximately 197 hours until the solar flare makes contact,” with the same formality with which one might report a political scandal. His limbs are heavy, as though someone has cut him open, poured in cement, and sewn him shut again. 

Adeline Lovell
He is still reading the two-paragraph article—according to the whistleblower, experts were consulted experts by world leaders on ways to prevent it… say nothing can be done… his phone buzzes beside him on the desk. He blinks and answers his mother.

“Baby,” she whispers. 

“Hey,” Henry says, and finds his throat is very dry. 

“I don’t even know what to say,” she says. “Oh, Henry. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” 

His laptop is still open, and texts from his friends are popping up in the corner so fast he can’t even read the names, a blur of black and green. He closes his eyes. 

“Come home, Hen,” she says. “Please, babe, your dad and I want you home.” 

“Yeah,” Henry says vaguely. “Yeah, of course.” 

So he spends the next few hours saying dazed, splintered goodbyes to his friends and staring blankly at his room, wondering what to pack, then deciding on only his laptop, his wallet, the stuffed lion he has slept with since he was a baby, and his favorite pair of jeans and hoodie. 

The doorbell rings several times. When he shakes himself out of a trance and gets downstairs, Leo Harper is there. 

“Hi,” Henry says. He wonders if one of his housemates knows Leo, if this is a frantic goodbye. 

“Hi,” Leo says. He is paler than usual, dark curls stuffed in a purple cap to look less disheveled, wearing the same shaky, hollow look Henry has seen on every single person he has encountered in the last few hours. “You driving back to Hudson, by any chance?” 

“Um,” Henry says, “leaving in less than an hour, I think.” 

“Can I get a ride?” Leo is a junior too, but he’s a theater major and his classes have never overlapped with Henry’s psychology ones. They lived in the same hall freshman year and drunkenly made out once at a party, but their relationship has been limited to nods in the dining hall since then. 

Henry likes Leo. Their respective upstate New York towns are about 15 minutes away from each other and at said party, they had laughed over going to college with children of millionaires and growing up in shitholes, or at least that had been Leo’s opinion. 

Henry, drunk and crushing, had nodded and agreed. Right now, though, the already inevitable awkwardness of a 30-hour car ride with someone Henry doesn’t really know has been accentuated by the fact that the world is fucking ending, and Henry stares at the empty highway instead of trying to talk, thinking about how desperately he misses his family, how much he wants to be home already. 

“Thanks for the ride,” Leo says eventually, picking at his nail polish. Leo is the kind of person who walks into a room and announces himself, who is constantly surrounded by other friends who are always laughing, and who, apparently, who can’t tolerate silence. 

“Yeah, it’s no problem. Did you see what plane tickets were going for?” The few airlines still running had jacked the prices up hundreds of thousands of dollars, more money than Henry’s family could scrape together even if they emptied their bank account. 

“Yeah.” Leo drums his knuckles against the dashboard. “Fucking unbelievable. The world’s gonna end and the airlines want to make money. Jesus.” 

Henry hums in agreement. “Jerky?” he offers a moment later, realizing self-consciously that they’ve been in the car for over an hour and he hasn’t offered Leo any of the snacks he’d brought, admittedly all from his room and starting to go stale. 

“No thanks. I’m a vegan.” Henry watches him for a moment, amused. “The world’s ending, you know.” 

“The world already ended for that cow,” Leo says, but it’s pleasant. 

Henry snorts. 

In front of them, the minivan that is going double the speed limit wavers, then slows down. On the back of it are four stick figure bumper stickers, a mom and dad and two little girls, but only a middle-aged man is driving. Henry wonders where home is for him and eases up on the gas. 

Leo picks up his phone. “Fucking politicians,” Leo scoffs. “They weren’t gonna fucking tell us. Can you imagine thinking you deserve to decide if everyone knows the world is going to end?” 

When Henry just nods, Leo goes on, “I mean, Christ, the president saying ‘We’re looking into lots of options for avoiding this.’ While scientists are right fucking there saying it’s useless.” 

“Maybe it’s better to not know,” Henry muses. “I mean, people would’ve gone insane if they knew. They already are.” There are reports everywhere of people jumping off bridges and setting cars on fire and smashing windows of abandoned storefronts. Henry read them with a kind of morbid, disconnected fascination, the way he had always been watching apocalypse movie trailers, something that had once been so far from his own reality that it hardly phased him. 

“Think of all the people who would’ve gone on a business trip and died without saying goodbye to their families,” Leo says sharply. “Think of us, studying for finals, not knowing the world was gonna fucking implode.” 

In front of them, the minivan hangs right and leaves the highway. “Yeah. I guess you’re right,” Henry relents. He is, probably, and Henry doesn’t feel like arguing. They keep talking, because there’s nothing else to do. 

“You must love your family, to be going home to them,” Leo says, propping his feet on the dashboard. 

“I do,” Henry says, with a sheepish smile. “My older sister lives close to home, so she’ll be there, too, and, uh, I actually really love my parents.” He doesn’t tell Leo that ever since they announced the solar flare he has felt like a child again, has been hollowed out with craving to fall into his parents’ arms and eat his mother’s blonde brownies and fall asleep in a bed under Star Wars and Captain America and Harry Potter posters that he had taped up before realizing his adoration for them went beyond typical superhero admiration. “You?” 

Leo glances to the side; Henry turns his head to see why and catches a brief glimpse of a deer and her fawns, tentative on the side of the highway. “I don’t get along with my parents, but, uh, maybe we’ll all reconcile this week. I’m going for my little sister. She’s a sophomore in high school. We’re best friends.” He laughs humorlessly. “She’s a big theater person, too. Worse than me.” Leo pauses. When he starts talking again, his voice is thick. “I bought her tickets to come to the city and see some shows with me this summer. It was gonna be her birthday present.” 

“I’m sorry,” Henry says. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“I know,” Henry says, “but it’s fucked.” 

“Yeah,” Leo swallows again, then reaches forward and fumbles with the radio, Springsteen singing I’m on Fire. 

“Is that a little tasteless?” Henry says. 

Leo bursts out laughing, and then Henry starts to laugh too, breathlessly and without abandon, and eventually, he needs to pull over to gather his breath so he can start driving towards the end of the world again. 

In front of them, thick gray clouds fog the sky like a shield against the sun. The sun breaks through the horizon in a white band, bright light, the pale color of disease. In the flat, grim glare, Henry notices, Leo’s eyelashes cast sloping shadows down his cheeks. 

The trees, silhouetted against the light, already look blackened and burnt. They get hungry after six hours or so and pull off the road until they find a Target far enough from the highway that it hasn’t been completely picked apart. Inside, it is desperately empty. A few other people walk through, their faces gaunt and shocked, pulling meaningless items off the shelves, sixty packs of bottled water and paper towels, bath robes and—this one making Henry laugh bitterly—fire extinguishers. Henry turns to Leo, for once, rendered silent, still except for a slight quiver in his chin. 

“Let’s just get some snacks,” Leo says, shaking his head quickly. They walk on. In the frozen foods aisle, a mother pushes her daughter in a stroller. The kid is four or five years old and is shrieking with delight, pointing at ice creams that she wants as her mom retrieves them for her, no idea what’s coming, just thrilled to suddenly be getting whatever she wants. 

Henry gives the mother a sad smile, which she returns. 

They gather random and pointless foods off the shelves, a jar of pickles, a can of honey-glazed peanuts, a couple of San Pelligrinos. There’s really no reason for them to linger, but they don’t quite feel like they can leave without surveying the whole place. 

“Hang on,” Leo says, and darts into an aisle a few yards ahead. When he returns, his arms are full of cat treats and toys. “Anything else you need?” 

“The complete set of Nicholas Sparks novels,” Henry suggests, grabbing it off of an empty shelf. Leo laughs. 

“This off brand Nerf gun.” 

“A flat screen, might as well take it, I can finally afford one.” 

They’re walking faster now, almost running, cart clanging against the linoleum. They’re laughing. This could almost be an adventure, friends on a road trip to sleep under stars and live off of chips, a couple shopping for furnishings for their new apartment. “Race you,” Leo says, and breaks into a spring down the empty lane. 

“Asshole, I have a cart!” Henry takes off behind him. 

At the end of the aisle, Leo stops, breathless, and Henry laughs and catches up to him. Leo rakes a hand through his curls and grins, and Henry thinks of that party sophomore year, of being drunk enough that the room was spinning and looking at this guy and believing if he didn’t kiss him the world would end. 

Cocking his head, Henry plucks a plastic sunflower off of the rack and extends it, sheepishly enough that the gesture could be laughed off as a joke if Leo’s heart isn’t also ricocheting out of his chest. 

Leo takes it from him and tucks it behind his own ear. Henry shifts his weight forward a little. Leo swallows and steps towards him, and when they kiss, it is nothing like it had been half-conscious at the Ultimate Frisbee house, it is soft and nervous and exhausted, it is comforting. 

They both laugh again when they pull apart, and Henry takes Leo’s hand. No cashiers are present, but Leo drops a ten at the empty cashier booth. It makes Henry lean in and kiss him again. When they get outside, the sky has deepened into a dazzling orange, the color of the quivering center of an egg. They roll the windows down and drive another four hours. Leo keeps the flower tucked behind his ear, fabric petals caught in the wind. 

Henry thinks he’d like to spend his remaining five days on Earth kissing him. They hold hands sometimes. They sing along to songs Leo selects, pop music that was popular when they were in middle school, and trade stories about that time in their life. They stop at an empty gas station and refill their tank alone. 

Henry is comforted by the sun’s absence, by the night’s endless dark dome and the chilled air, too vivid and real to be blasted apart by light and heat. They head into the store for snacks and the restroom. Henry had expected it to be empty and picked over, but an older man sits behind the counter, drinking a from a mug of gray coffee and watching a program with lots of shooting on his small TV. 

“Still gotta pay,” he snaps to them, the second they enter. Henry considers the guy’s American flag shirt and the fact that they are somewhere in rural Ohio and lets go of Leo’s hand. “Sure,” Henry says, catching Leo’s eyes for a faint smirk. 

They take a couple of boxes of crackers and cigarettes and a few seltzers, handing the guy a twenty and waving off the change even when he says, “You know, this is all deep state bullshit, the world isn’t goddamn ending.” 

And, when neither of them engage: “Mark my words, everyone will feel like a damned fool for falling for it.” When he takes the bill, Henry notices the absence of a wedding ring. 

“Jesus,” Leo says, when they are outside again. “I guess we all handle things differently, but, my god.” 

“Let’s wait here, a bit,” Henry says, laughing weakly. “I’m exhausted. Just a half hour.” Leo nods, resting his head on Henry’s shoulder, sending sparks thrumming through him. “Cigarette?” Leo offers. 

Henry takes it. “Don’t you have a voice to preserve?” 

Leo huffs out a bitter laugh and scuffs his shoe over the cement. Henry lights the cigarette and doesn’t say anything. The flame twirls on top of the lighter, and Henry extinguishes it with a flick of his thumb. He does it again and again, until Leo places his hand on top of Henry’s and stops him. 

“I can’t stop thinking about the animals,” Leo says. “I know there are kids and babies and pregnant women and couples who were gonna get married and people who just got their dream job and people who just met the love of their life and people who can’t get back to their families and it’s fucking awful. But I just—I can’t stop thinking about the animals who have no idea what’s coming.” He swallows hard. “I’m gonna hug my cat for so long. I’m gonna cook her a salmon dinner and let her drink all the milk she wants.” 

Henry chokes out a laugh. He is beginning the unstoppable and incandescent process of falling in love, which is tragic because he will never be able to complete it. He kisses Leo’s forehead, dark curls tickling his chin. Lit up inside and then burnt. The unfairness of it is almost crippling. “Yeah,” he agrees, and finds his voice is choked. 

They stand there next to one another, leaning against the car and smoking and watching the sky turn itself orange again, warm creamsicle light that makes even this ugly spot off of the highway, bare roads and empty gas stations, look beautiful. The sun’s apology, he supposes, for propelling itself towards Earth. Henry has never liked smoking before, and he doesn’t now, not even without the threat of lung cancer. He tosses it aside after a few drags and watches it extinguish itself on the ground, the cement untouched by the flame even though in five days, it will be melted to atoms. 

“These are fucking disgusting,” Leo says, abandoning his. 

Henry hums in agreement, then leans in and kisses him. 

Leo tastes like smoke and like the Orangina he drank in the car and like something unplaceable but excruciatingly right. Leo’s soft hands come up to cup Henry’s chin, soft for being so frantic, and they find themselves pushing the backseats down clumsily. 

“Wait,” Leo says breathlessly. “What if our friend comes out?” “And leaves his store to be burgled by all the gullible people falling for the apocalypse?” 

When Leo kisses him again, they are both laughing so hard their teeth click together. Later, they lie together in the back of the car, their bodies curled like apostrophes closing in dialogue. Henry traces the rose tattoo over Leo’s ribs until Leo takes his hand and stills it against his chest. The air is a little cold, but neither of them want to dress or to move, so they stay put. 

They smile at each other so sadly that Leo kisses Henry again, softer this time. Lazy, like they have all the time in the world. “You’d think,” Leo says, “that it’d be less fucking freezing, considering the sun is getting close and all that.” 

Henry smiles weakly, then rubs his hands up Leo’s arms. He has a birthmark on his wrist, a tiny scar close to his shoulder. 

“Not sure that’s how it works.” 

“Apparently.” They are quiet again. 

A dog barks somewhere far away. “Do you think it will hurt?” Henry whispers. 

Leo tightens his hold on Henry’s hand. “No,” he whispers back, “it’ll be quick.” 

Henry doesn’t believe him. He is comforted all the same. Henry’s mom has texted him When can we expect you? We miss you. He stares at the message for a full minute. Beside him, Leo has fallen asleep. He stirs and tucks himself closer to Henry. 

The drive should have taken a day and a half, but with so few cars on the road and no cops enforcing the speed limit, they only have another nine hours or so. Henry imagines, for a moment, not answering her, laying here with Leo until flames wash over them, or driving down some unknown highway far away from Albany, stopping for junk food and sex, clinging to each other when it comes. He thinks of photos he had seen in elementary school of Pompeii after it was excavated, where bodies had hardened to clay still wrapped around each other. Taking so much comfort in someone that even as the world burned, their presence would keep the devastation at bay. Outside of the car, ancient stillness. Occasionally, a car will tear past, speeding laws forgotten, throwing a band of white light over them for a few seconds before disappearing down the highway. He texts his mother: traffic is brutal. still another few hours. not sure how many. 

* * * 

They stay seventy-two minutes longer than they said they would, just lying there. Eventually, they dress in silence and crawl out of the back of the car. The sky is pale, dull morning light stretching over them, the sun a faint milk stain somewhere above them, kept briefly at bay. 

Before they start driving, Henry wraps his arms around Leo and they hold onto one another. Their closeness feels so huge Henry thinks, for a moment, it could stop the world from ending. 

When they start driving again, Leo begins to cry. 

Henry reaches over and grips his hand so tightly for so long his own fingers seize up. The sun bounces off the glass, a bright white razor that blinds him.

 * * * 

“You could come see me,” Henry says softly, when he pulls up in front of Leo’s house, their hair greasy and hands numb and lips chapped and swollen. 

“Before, you know.” Leo kisses him, both hands light on the side of Henry’s face. “I’ll try,” he whispers. “Thank you, Hen.” 

Don’t go, Henry imagines saying, the words sharp and uncomfortable in his throat. Come home with me, or we can keep driving. If Leo said yes, would he really do it? 

Henry takes him in, his limp curls tucked back into the beanie, circles under coffee-colored eyes, smelling faintly of sex and smoke and sweat, and can’t come up with the answer. 

“No problem,” Henry says instead, and wills tears back. 

Leo’s eyes glisten too. 

Henry thinks he must be burning inside, all of him reduced to leaping particles of light. 

“Bye, Henry,” Leo says thickly. He looks like he might say something else, but he kisses him again, brief and hard, then gets out of the car. 

Henry’s breath throttles him. Henry watches Leo slump towards his front door and get let in by his sister, who throws her arms around him and clings to him, and he waits until they are inside to drive home. Four days to go. The sun glitters against the horizon, waiting. 

Saturday, March 27, 2021


GUEST BLOG / By Kris Gunnars,
--Coffee is one of the world’s most popular beverages. Thanks to its high levels of antioxidants and beneficial nutrients, it also seems to be quite healthy. 

Studies show that coffee drinkers have a much lower risk of several serious diseases. Thanks to our friends at for the next few Saturdays, this column will highlight one at a time the top 13 health benefits of coffee. 

Here’s Number Ten: 


May Lower Risk of Certain Types of Cancer 

Cancer is one of the world’s leading causes of death. It is characterized by uncontrolled cell growth in your body. Coffee appears to be protective against two types of cancer: liver and colorectal cancer. 

Liver cancer is the third leading cause of cancer death in the world, while colorectal cancer ranks fourth. 

Studies show that coffee drinkers have up to a 40% lower risk of liver cancer. 

 Similarly, one study in 489,706 people found that those who drank 4–5 cups of coffee per day had a 15% lower risk of colorectal cancer. 


Liver and colorectal cancer are the third and fourth leading causes of cancer death worldwide. Coffee drinkers have a lower risk of both. 


WEEKLY COFFEE QUIZ--Where in the world is this coffee establishment? Answer next Saturday in Coffee Beans & Beings post. 


Here we are in downtown Memphis? If so, try heading over to the corner of Main and Adams, where you’ll find the popular Qahwa Coffee House. Inside, Oahwa (original name for coffee, claims the owner) there’s the vintage safe belonging to the original Hotel Claridge. The huge safe is now a side room for larger groups

Qahwa Coffee House occupies the corner storefront, downtown Memphis.

Friday, March 26, 2021


"Chat among yourselves, I'll be out when its safe..."

NASA's Hubble Space Telescope just chillin' at altitude.

A child among blooming peach trees, Aitona, Spain  Getty

At NASA, women--be they scientists, jet pilots, astronauts and others--
help the Agency fulfill its mission.  Joan Higginbottom is one
of those women.
Cheers, World! To a better year ahead.   Jerry Ghionis Photography

"New Kids in the Neighborhood," 1967 by Norman Rockwell


 Alleged face of death: Ahmad Al Aliwi Alissa

The following link to an Associated Press article gives a clear update on what happened last Tuesday. Was it murder? Mental Illness? Or, both? What is undeniable is the fact it was another high magazine gun massacre. CLICK HERE. 

Thursday, March 25, 2021


A bit of Brit envy ensues: Let’s pray harder that the pandemic goes away so we can once again enjoy restaurants like London’s Wolseley’s in Piccadilly. But because the plague is still lingering forcing Brits to order takeout from one of the best dining establishment this reporter has had the privilege of dining in. 

Wolseley’s management was delighted with the response to their Valentine’s and Mother’s Day home dining boxes, so chefs there have created a special takeout menu for next week’s Easter holidays. 

The Easter Holiday Celebratory Meal is available for two or four people but alas for mainland UK delivery only. It begins with a fresh Asparagus Vinaigrette, then onto a New Season Leg of Lamb marinated with Rosemary and Garlic, served with Rosemary Gravy and three side dishes. Dessert is a Gariguette Strawberry and Champagne Trifle with Valrhona Chocolate Mini Eggs and homemade Hot Cross Buns to finish. 

Wowzers! Sign me up. 

The Wolseley 160 Piccadilly, St. James's, London W1J 9EB, United Kingdom 

Wednesday, March 24, 2021


GUEST BLOG / By Katherine Guimapang, Writer for Archinect
--There's no denying the events that have taken place in 2020 have shaken the globe socially and economically. From a pandemic to social unrest, not to mention unruly government leadership, it's easy to turn on the fate of the architecture industry. 

With several architecture students who have recently experienced their first "virtual commencements," they now enter somewhat uncharted territory as they embark on their careers. In a continued effort to provide a voice for students and emerging professionals, Archinect connected with recently graduated students from six schools to learn about their concerns and perspectives as they begin to navigate professional practice and explore the job market. 

The current job market has left young aspiring professionals wondering, "will I find a job?" For over two decades Archinect has provided the leading architecture job board in the US. With our expertise focusing on architectural employment, professional practice, and academia we wanted to dive into these questions of uncertainty and hear from recent graduates. 

Question: As a recent graduate, how do you feel about the architecture industry right now and job prospects? 

Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts—Arizona State 

Selenia Martinez, M.Arch graduate of Arizona State University
: "I feel the architecture industry must undergo transitions and awareness on a multiplicity of levels regarding how our design work impacts the next generations. 

"And how narratives of projects should begin with community and nature in mind to really have timeless meaning. I think it is obvious that we need to uplift diversity in these fields, as a lot of architecture schools are still led by white men and continue to teach 'Bauhaus' design processes that disregard ecological and social justice issues. 

Job prospects vary depending on place but it seems clients are still looking for designers to bring life to their ideas. I would suggest that now is the time to take the role of entrepreneurs and put yourself out there for various design jobs not just architectural work. 

Diversifying one's skillset can lead to more opportunities and relationship building that may come in handy when you land that dream architectural job or lead you toward something that makes an impact at a different scale."

John H. Daniels Faculty of Architecture—Univ. of Toronto 

Jessica Ying, M.Arch graduate of the University of Toronto:
 "A part of me feels stuck as all firms are facing similar problems and we are not able to enter into neither small studios nor big corporate firms, but it also got me thinking how our industry should encourage more micro-businesses. 

"I would like to see if our industry can move towards a more distributed network rather than a centralized one as it is right now. Not only does this help build a more resilient and diverse system when we face a crisis like the current pandemic, but also helps young architects and recent graduates start their own small businesses to get into the market and access new opportunities."

Architecture Hall—Univ. of Washington

Michelle Hook, M.Arch of the University of Washington:
 "To be honest, I don't know. I am ending a six month internship next month and have no future job currently lined up. As I have started looking at new listings for job openings, I have noticed more are getting posted as the days pass. I plan to use the extra time that I'm sure I'll have to apply for residencies, potential grants for conceptual practice, and maybe even start to study and test for the ARE's. 

School of Architecture & Planning—MIT 

Alexandre Beaudouin-Mackay & Sarah Wagner, M.Arch graduates of Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT):
 An architectural Masters degree equips us with a wide range of skills that reach industries beyond architecture. This might be an opportunity for graduating students to explore alternative realms of design. Since our thesis we have taken radically different paths. 

Sarah is now working at an architectural office and is planning to pursue licensure. 

Alex, struggling with job prospects, has taken this opportunity to start his own furniture design and fabrication business. Beyond the architectural and the entrepreneurial we see so many other opportunities for jobs outside of architecture that could be integral in shaping a young architect’s career, like our work with after-school activities at the Margaret Fuller House was an avenue for design exploration. Reaching out beyond the discipline during this difficult time can make your post-COVID return to architecture as an even stronger designer. 

School of Architecture—Tulane Univ. 

Kate Katz and Ryan Shaaban B.Arch graduates of Tulane University
: The ability to build is a costly endeavor, the pandemic, and associated recession have shed light on how architecture is not insulated from social and economic impacts but also how it is a valued resource. We have had different opportunities for work during this time, allowing us to reflect on our interests within the profession. Throughout it all, we have kept our perspectives open to how our careers can develop and how we can best apply our expertise from school to opportunities in the present and future. 

Architecture & Urban Design—UCLA 

Chunsu Ouyang, Tianyi Song, Xianrui Wang, M.Arch graduates of University of California, Los Angeles Architecture and Urban Design
: New eras and new media bring new ways of design. That’s what we explored in this program and what we want to bring to the architectural industry. We think that the architecture industry values expression and seeks for the expression’s quality, intuitive feeling and speed. As real-time rendering comes in sight, the game industry’s pursuit of expression starts to affect the standard of architectural expression. For instance, the game producing software Unreal Engine now has modes for architecture and interior design, and many designers are using it in their professional practice. We believe that the future of architectural expression is to blur the boundary between virtual and reality. 


Katherine Guimapang is a Los Angeles-based visual artist, architectural writer, and designer. She is currently an editorial writer and the advertising/media manager at Archinect. Her work focuses on immersive design and lighting/spatial installations. Much of her interests revolve around conceptual practices which blend art, architecture, and curation by exploring color in the built environment. After receiving her B.A. in Communication Disorders from the University of Redlands she has gone on to complete course programs at UIC’s Architecture Department, Southern California Institute of Architecture (SCI-Arc) Making + Meaning program, Art Center, and AA Visiting School.  

Tuesday, March 23, 2021


Tee at the par three fifth hole at Pebble Beach Golf Links in California. 

Gorgeous video with priceless commentary by venerable broadcaster Jim Nantz. Click here. 

Green fifth hole and this isn't even considered the most beautiful green on the course.  
Save that distinction for the magnificent seventh!


Widely regarded as one of the most beautiful courses in the world, Pebble Beach (public) Golf Links, hugs the rugged coastline and has wide open views of Carmel Bay, opening to the Pacific Ocean on the south side of the Monterey Peninsula. 

In 2001, it became the first public course to be selected as the No. 1 Golf Course in America by Golf Digest. Greens fees are among the highest in the world, at $525 (plus $40 cart fee or $92.50 caddie fee for non-resort guests) per round in 2018. 

Four of the courses in the coastal community of Pebble Beach, including Pebble Beach Golf Links, belong to the Pebble Beach Company, which also operates three hotels and a spa at the resort. The other courses are The Links at Spanish Bay, Spyglass Hill Golf Course, and Del Monte Golf Course. 

The course began as part of the complex of the Hotel del Monte, a resort hotel in Monterey, California, built by Charles Crocker, one of the California's Big Four railroad barons, through Southern Pacific Railroad's property division, Pacific Improvement Company. 

The hotel first opened on June 10, 1880. The famous 17-Mile Drive was originally designed as a local excursion route for visitors to the Del Monte to take in the historic sights of Monterey and Pacific Grove and the scenery of what would become Pebble Beach. The course was designed by Jack Neville and Douglas Grant and opened on February 22, 1919. 

Neville also designed the back nine at Pacific Grove Municipal Golf Course on the other side of the Monterey Peninsula. His objective was to place as many of the holes as possible along the rocky and beautiful Monterey coast line. This was accomplished using a "figure 8" layout. 

The course was extensively revised in 1928 by H. Chandler Egan. Other architects who have worked on the course include Alistair MacKenzie and Robert Hunter (1927) and Jack Nicklaus (creation of the new fifth hole, 1998).

The seventh greet at Pebble Beach Golf Links

Monday, March 22, 2021


Lead impeachment manager believes Senate would have convicted Trump in secret vote 

GUEST BLOG / By Wesley G. Pippert, writer National Press Club newsletter--Rep. Jamie Raskin, lead House manager in former President Donald Trump’s second impeachment trial, said Monday that the trial showed how very close the nation came to becoming like a “Banana Style Republic” and that a secret Senate vote would have come close to 100-0 conviction. 

Rep. James Raskin, D-Maryland, the lead impeachment manager, gave his perspective of the recent trial of former President Donald Trump to NPC President Lisa Nicole Matthews at a recent National Press Club Virtual Headliners Newsmaker event. Raskin spoke at a National Press Club Virtual Headliner Newsmaker event. 

NPC President Lisa Nicole Matthews asked whether Trump was still a threat, and Raskin replied, “Absolutely. Far too much for anyone to disregard.” “We came very close to having a stolen Banana Republic style of election,” Raskin said. “We would have moved to a completely different form of government.” “He wasn’t remotely innocent," Raskin said. "He was guilty as sin.” 

Instead of the traditional dividing of seating in the Senate between the Democrats and Republicans, Raskin thought about proposing that the senators be seated at random or by seniority, but added with a laugh, “I was told not to antagonize everybody.” 

While Raskin believes that Trump would have been convicted if the Senate voted in secret, as it was, “a commanding majority of the House and the Senate voted to convict.” The Senate vote was 57-43 to convict, short of the two-thirds -- or 67 votes needed. “I think the bottom is going to fall out for Trump legally,” Raskin said, noting the various allegations regarding tax and real estate fraud, payoffs to mistresses and civil suits growing out of his alleged incitement of the Jan. 6 attack on the Capitol. 

A “cult of personality” has grown up around Trump, Raskin said. Because of this “cultish loyalty,” he said, “Mr. Trump brought our country to near ruin. He will bring the Republican party to ruin.” “No president has come remotely close to do it,” Raskin said. “You can’t even imagine Washington, or Jefferson, or George W. Bush doing it.” 

For the impeachment process, Raskin said, senators need to understand they take an oath to defend the Constitution but also take an oath “to render impartial justice.” Raskin was asked why he didn’t call witnesses during the trial, including Trump. 

Had Trump testified, Raskin had a list of questions – about his incitement to the insurrection, other statements he had made, going through a list of statements Trump had made and what his actions meant in the year leading up to the riot. “But he wouldn’t show up,” Raskin said, noting that he had urged his followers to “be strong” and “fight like hell.” 

As for former Vice President Mike Pence and House Republican Leader Kevin McCarthy of California, “we had no idea what they were going to say,” Raskin said, “I was not going to let the trial rest on what McCarthy nor Pence were going to say.” As for Senate Republican Leader Mitch McConnell’s “lashing” criticism of Trump after the trial was over, Raskin said the way McConnell sounded, “I wished he had been a member of our team.” 

Sunday, March 21, 2021


So, is this Little Chandler? Maybe. Could be the main character of this 1914 James Joyce short story, which first appeared in Dubliners. Photo by John J. Clarke, Dublin. 


By James Joyce 

Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him God-speed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that. 

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. 

He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair, clean shaven face and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect, and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth. 

As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. 

The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures - on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him. 

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him. 

When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns [government buildings on North side of Liffey river in central Dublin], a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway, or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors, or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roistered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.

He had never been in Thomas Corless's restaurant, but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly-dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. 

Atalanta is a beautiful fleet-footed huntress in Greek mythology whose suitors must defeat her in a race for her hand in marriage. Undefeated, her luck runs out when she is defeated by Hippomenes when she stops to pick up three golden apples he has dropped. Joyce uses this allusion in describing the fashionable women darting about in Corless’s Restaurant. 

He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day, and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him; the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf. 

He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. 

People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time; drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. 

Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner: 

 `Half-time now, boys,' he used to say light-heartedly. `Where's my considering cap?'

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it. 

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. 

Grattan Bridge is a road bridge spanning the River Liffey in Dublin, Ireland, and joining Capel Street to Parliament Street and the south quays. This photo was taken in the early 1900s. Little Chandler crosses the bridge from his quarters to the flashier restaurant Corless on the south side. 

As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night to bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. 

Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express, but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely. 

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old - thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. 

There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. 

If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd, but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognize him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. 

He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. `Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse'... `A wistful sadness pervades these poems'... `The Celtic note'. It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it. 

In 1900 Michael and Francois Jammet bought the Burlington Hotel Restaurant
and oyster saloons at 27 St. Andrew Street, Dublin from Tom Corless.  They
refitted, and renamed it The Jammett Hotel and Restaurant in 1901, and it 
for decades the pre-eminent among the fine restaurants of Dublin

He pursued his reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered. 

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorway for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses. The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, Sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart. 

`Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same. Spoils the flavour... Here, garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of ageing in me - eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top - what?' 

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely-cropped head. His face was heavy, pale, and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. 

Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. 

Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again. `It pulls you down,' he said. `Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear, dirty Dublin... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.' 

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted. `You don't know what's good for you, my boy,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I drink mine neat.' 

`I drink very little as a rule,' said Little Chandler modestly. `An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all.' 

`Ah well,' said Ignatius Gallaher cheerfully, `here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance.' 

They clinked glasses and drank the toast. `I met some of the old gang today,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `O'Hara seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?' 

`Nothing,' said Little Chandler. `He's gone to the dogs.' 

`But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?' 

 `Yes, be's in the Land Commission.' `I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush... Poor O'Hara! Booze, I suppose?' 

`Other things, too,' said Little Chandler shortly. 

Ignatius Gallaher laughed. `Tommy,' he said, `I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?' 

`I've been to the Isle of Man,' said Little Chandler. 

Ignatius Gallaher laughed. `The Isle of Man!' he said. `Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That'd do you good.' `Have you seen Paris?' `I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little.' 

`And is it really so beautiful as they say?' asked Little Chandler. He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly. 

`Beautiful?' said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. `It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course it is beautiful... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement... ' 

Recent colorization of a vintage early 20th century 
photograph of the Moulin Rouge music hall, Paris

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again. `I've been to the Moulin Rouge,' Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, `and I've been to all the Bohemian cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.' 

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which lie had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously. 

`Everything in Paris is gay,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `They believe in enjoying life - and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.' 

Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass. `Tell me,' he said, `is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they say?' 

Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm. `Every place is immoral,' he said. `Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?' 

`I've heard of them,' said Little Chandler. 

Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head. `Ah,' he said, `you may say what you like. There's no woman like the Parisienne - for style, for go.' 

`Then it is an immoral city,' said Little Chandler, with timid insistence - `I mean, compared with London or Dublin?' 

`London!' said Ignatius Gallaher. `It's six of one and half a dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He'd open your eye... I say, Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up.' `No, really.' `O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?' 

`Well... all right.' `Francois, the same again... Will you smoke, Tommy?' 

Two well-dressed gentlemen outside a tobacconist's shop on Grafton Street by photographer John J. Clarke. Photo of a well-dressed woman walking past stationery shop on busy Sackville (O'Connell) Street by John J Clarke from the collection of: National Library of Ireland.

Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served. `I'll tell you my opinion,' said Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, `it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases - what am I saying? - I've known them: cases of... immorality... ' 

Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarized the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society, and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess - a story which he knew to be true. 

Little chandler was astonished. 

`Ah, well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.' 

`How dull you must find it,' said Little Chandler, `after all the other places you've seen!' 

`Well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature... But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?' 

Little Chandler blushed and smiled. `Yes,' he said. `I was married last May twelve months.' 

`I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at the time.' He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took. `Well, Tommy,' he said, `I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?' 

`I know that,' said Little Chandler. 

`Any youngsters?' said Ignatius Gallaher. 

Little Chandler blushed again. `We have one child,' he said. 

`Son or daughter?' 

`A little boy.' Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back. `Bravo,' he said, `I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.' 

Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth. `I hope you'll spend an evening with us,' he said, `before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and--

`Thanks awfully, old chap,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.' 

`Tonight, perhaps... ?` 

`I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that... ' 

`O, in that case... ' 

`But who knows?' said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. `Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a pleasure deferred.' 

`Very well,' said Little Chandler, `the next time you come we must have an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?' 

`Yes, that's agreed,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `Next year if I come, parole d'honneur.' 

`And to clinch the bargain,' said Little Chandler, `we'll just have one more now.' 

 Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it. `Is it to be the last?' he said. `Because, you know, I have an a.p.' 

`O, yes, positively,' said Little Chandler. 

`Very well, then,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `let us have another one as a deoc an doirus - that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.' 

Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher's stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's, and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity! He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronizing him by his friendliness just as he was patronizing Ireland by his visit. 

The barman brought their drinks. 

Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly. `Who knows?' he said, as they lifted their glasses. `When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.' 

Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said: `No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack - if I ever do.' 

 `Some day you will,' said Little Chandler calmly. 

Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend. `You think so?' he said. 

`You'll put your head in the sack,' repeated Little Chandler stoutly, `like everyone else if you can find the girl.' He had slightly emphasized his tone, and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friends' gaze. 

Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said: `If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do for me.' 

 Little Chandler shook his head. 

`Why, man alive,' said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, `do you know what it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds - what am I saying? - thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that'd only be too glad... You wait a while, my boy. See if I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.' He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone: `But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.' He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face. `Must get a bit stale, I should think,' he said. 


Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant, but Annie's young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or So in the evening to help. 

But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. 

Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea, but when it came near he time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. 

She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said: `Here. Don't waken him.' 

A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. 

It had cost him ten and eleven pence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! 

How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. 

When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and eleven pence for it. At first she wanted to take it back, but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her. 

Hm!... He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... 

Why had he married the eyes in the photograph? He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. 

Could he not escape from his little house? 

Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? 

There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him. A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book: Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb And scatter flowers on the dust I love

He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for example. 

If he could get back again into that mood... 

The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but he would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms, but its wailing cry grew keener. 

He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza: Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once... 

It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted: `Stop!' 

The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it, but it sobbed more convulsively. 

He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died!... 

The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting. `What is it? What is it?' she cried. 

The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing. 

`It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing... He began to cry... ' 

She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him. `What have you done to him?' she cried, glaring into his face. 

Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer: `It's nothing... He... he... began to cry... I couldn't... I didn't do anything... What?' 

Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring: `My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?'... There now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!... There now!' 

Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes. End. 


James Joyce
 *note.  From the public domain via  Little Chandler first appeared in the Dubliners, a   collection of 15 short stories by James Joyce, first published in   1914. The stories form a naturalistic depiction of Irish middle   class life in and around Dublin in the early years of the 20th   century. They were written when Irish nationalism was at its   peak, and a search for a national identity and purpose was   raging; at a crossroads of history and culture, Ireland was   jolted by various converging ideas and influences. 

Those ideas center on Joyce's idea of an epiphany: a moment where a character experiences a life-changing self-understanding or illumination, and the idea of paralysis where Joyce felt Irish nationalism stagnated cultural progression, placing Dublin at the heart of this regressive movement. Many of the characters in Dubliners later appear in minor roles in Joyce's novel Ulysses. The initial stories in the collection are narrated by child protagonists, and as the stories continue, they deal with the lives and concerns of progressively older people. This is in line with Joyce's tripartite division of the collection into childhood, adolescence and maturity. 

On 2nd February 1922, 1,000 copies of Ulysses appeared in the window of Shakespeare & Company from where it quickly became one of the most important books of 20th century literature. Icon American ex-pat bookseller Sylvia Beach’s publishing of Ulysses was a huge feat against all odds, and an act of real faith in Joyce. But when the UK and US lifted their ban on Ulysses, and Joyce was offered a massive Random House deal, he tore up his old contract with Sylvia Beach (left). Financially, Joyce was set for life. And after everything Sylvia had done for him, he never gave her a penny.